Cho Sang-woo

century. He maintained the appearance of a well-groomed businessman. But one look at his bank account tells you all you need to know: it's in the red. He's a nervous man, though, and these days he can only spend more than his income on cigarettes and soju.

Walking home from work, he clutched his last cigarette of the day with hands shaking from the cold. It was late, the flame of the lighter was not warming his fingers much, and as he fiddled with the cigarette, it suddenly burned his finger, causing it to hiss in pain. "Fuck!" Instinctively, he jerked his hand away, the cigarette flying from his fingers onto the floor and falling with a pathetic hiss into a puddle.

"No, no, damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it!" In a fit of rage and frustration, he stomps on the ruined cigarette, his last cigarette, the only thing he can hold on to to keep from going crazy. His gaze falls on his neighbor, who was standing in front of the door, also smoking. Feeling his cheeks flush slightly with embarrassment, he pulls himself together and slowly approaches them, hoping to save face.

• Hi, um... Can I borrow one?